


Ask Box Fic #9

by SaSaCo



Series: Ask Box Fics Archive [9]
Category: Three Days Grace (Band)
Genre: Archived From Tumblr, Archived From sasaoc-fics Blog, Blood, Comfort, Established Relationship, Horror, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaSaCo/pseuds/SaSaCo
Summary: "Except when he wraps his arms around the body, it’s not the one he’s used to.“ Written by anonymous.*Saved and posted to Ao3 as an archival piece. SaSaCo is not the writer. If you are the writer and would like this piece removed, please comment here or send us a message on Tumblr at sasaco-fics.





	Ask Box Fic #9

"Neil! Neil, Neil. neil… neil, neil,” Brad calls out, voice rougher than usual. Broken, even. Falling to a sharp whisper as he weakly opens his eyes and tries to look around the dark of the cheap hotel room. His voice failing him as his darkness-blinded sight is pushed to the back of his mind and he hears soft breathing maybe a couple of meters away.

He shakily stands up and reaches toward the breathing, needing the comfort of his friend’s soft body for a bit. Brad knows there’s someone and it’s not another of those auditory hallucinations he has when it’s really quiet sometimes. Except when he wraps his arms around the body, it’s not the one he’s used too. Shorter limbs, thinner shoulders. The smell is different, and the skin is colder then Neil’s usual almost burning touch.

Brad doesn’t really care though. It’s the night, maybe Neil showered or something. Plus it’s 3 in the morning, perception is easily altered at that time of night. “Brad?”

That isn’t Neil’s voice. It’s soft and rough, and he hasn’t heard it in some time, but it’s so familiar. And now the smell makes sense, expensive perfume, cigarettes, breath mints and musk. As it dawns on Brad, he quickly throws himself off the man standing near his bed in the dark at three a.m. It’s not Neil. Not Neil at all.

“Adam?!” He nearly screams out. “What the _hell_ are you doing in my room?” Brad’s heavy breathing could be accounted to surprise and adrenaline. But he’s not sure what Adam’s heavy breathing could mean. It had been so soft and sweet just a few seconds ago.

“I don’t know,” The man replies, words sad and pathetically quiet. Or maybe it’s the dark. Blocking the sound, distorting it.

“What…” Brad shakes his head, and looks down. It doesn’t make much of a difference. But the personal sentiment of the gesture is still there. Confusion, disarray, shock, disapproval. It’s a great gesture.

“Come here.”

It’s a sly command that sharply contrasts the earlier whisper. These words ring clear. The darkness must be selective. It lets through only things that only that little secret part of Brad wants to hear and obey. It’s a hated little part of Brad, mind you. There’s anger in his mind even at one stupid intrusive thought, and the aggression can’t be hidden. “Fuck you.”

“Brad, baby. Come here,” Adam whispers. And then his icy blue eyes seem to light up. It’s the only thing that Brad can see, and it’s a little terrifying. They don’t emit a glow, per se. But they’re suddenly the only thing he can see. Brad stumbles back and reaches for the light switch. But flicking it on is a mistake.

The light floods into the room, filling it as much as a single light bulb can. Brad wants to throw up at the sight in front of him. It’s Adam all right. Except there’s blood. So much blood. On the white dress shirt and the black vest, drying in his hair and spattered on his wildly grinning face, it’s dripping off his fingers and onto a puddle on the floor.

This is impossible. Brad should have felt it, or smelled it. And at that thought, the smell of iron and drying blood hits his nostrils, and he nearly doubles over at it’s stench. “Come on, baby. Come here.” Adam’s reaching for Brad with bloodied palms. And as the long sleeve pulls up a little, Brad sees where the blood is coming from.

Barbed wire, wound tight around the singers arms, wrists, probably chest. The skin’s bleeding, and the wounds are distorting his tattoos. Brad takes a step back in pure shock. And something snaps in Adam. He throws himself at Brad, but Brad, in turn, throws himself back into the wall.

But a drop of blood lands on Brad’s face, and it’s not warm and sickening as it should be. It burns, like acid. Burning into his skin, biting the flesh underneath. Face distorted with pain, and horror, Brad realizes he’s got no escape. He closes his eyes, as a bloodied palm reaches for him and grabs at his throat. He screams out, screaming because he’s scared, because it’s agony, because it’s Adam, and he’s bleeding, and Brad himself is bleeding now too. Brad now stares openly at what he’s certain is his cruel and unusual death. Blue eyes. “This is the only way I’ll get you to listen to what I say. Brad. Brad. BRAD.”

He wakes up with a start. Sweaty, heart pumping so hard there’s a painful thumping in his ears. His throat is raw and he’s staring into a whole different set of eyes. Neil. He feels the familiar warm hands wrap around him in Neil’s signature, comforting, too-hot-yet-perfect embrace. “Brad, are you okay? I couldn’t get you to wake up.”

Brad breathes out for a couple seconds, collecting his thoughts and hysterically looking around the room and seeing no blood at all. “I’m fine. I need a drink,” he croaks out. “I’ll get you one then.” Neil pulls himself away, and grabs a glass from his night stand, then reaches under his bed and pulls out a plastic bottle of water. Opening it up, smelling it, and wincing apologetically at Brad when he feels the stench of stale water hit his senses. He pours it into the glass.

He hands it to Brad. Brad reaches for it weakly, too weakly, he supposes. As the glass drops onto the hard floor and shatters. “Fuck!” A shard of glass hitting Neil’s foot. A small cut, nothing serious. But as soon a tiny trail drop of blood starts moving down the drummers foot, Brad feels his stomach churn as the images of the nightmare come back to him. He quickly jumps up from the floor and runs over to the tiny garbage can in the corner, the images too sick for his weak stomach.

When he finally manages to stand up properly, he can see that Neil’s cleaned up the glass, and probably bandaged his foot. But he’s wearing jeans now, it’s hard to tell. “I’m sorry, had an awful dream. I can’t…”

“It’s okay Brad, baby. Come here.”

The bassist eyes widen. “No, fuck. No. Neil, don’t- don’t…”


End file.
